Second Look
by takethetardis97
Summary: When Sherlock is bored, he is forced to choose a boring case. At least, the case seemed boring. Upon further investigation, he realizes that there is more to it than he previously thought.
1. Chapter 1

It was 8 o'clock in the morning, and Sherlock was already bored.

John hadn't expected anything different to come out of the day; the two hadn't received an interesting case in ages. Still, he hadn't expected Sherlock's outbursts to come so soon. John promptly poured himself a cup of tea at the first sign of his partner's discontentment. If he was going to deal with the whining nuisance that is Sherlock Holmes, he'd at least need his caffeine fix first. Sipping at his cup, John trudged reluctantly back into the sitting room to offer feeble solace to his obnoxious flat mate.

"Don't worry," John comforted, "I'm sure a real interesting one will pop up soon!" Sherlock moaned dramatically, and Dr. Watson began to wonder why he even tried to put up with him. Stomping his feet huffily on the ground, Sherlock stood from the couch and began trudging irritably around the flat.

"Don't patronize me, John. Face it: we have to pick one of the boring cases," the man crossed his arms and jutted out his bottom lip like a child who'd realized he'd have to eat his vegetables before he got dessert. John sighed, bringing his laptop to Sherlock and allowing the man to peruse the list of mundane clients with their mundane stories. At least Sherlock thought they were mundane: John still wasn't completely aware how Sherlock decided whether or not a case was worth his time. The skinny man sat on the couch again, clicking through the offers. John heard the histrionic sigh escape the consulting detective's lips as he reviewed his options.

"They're all so awfully boring, John!" Sherlock moaned, shifting grumpily on the couch, "I can't possibly choose one. It's going to have to be at random." The doctor rolled his eyes at his flat mate's theatrics, watching as his friend covered his piercing eyes and selected a case at random. Opening his eyes, he sighed cantankerously at the result. "Of course it's this bloody one…"

"Stop complaining and let's give it a look," John muttered, taking a seat next to Sherlock on the couch. The detective pulled up the request on the screen, showing his disapproval by folding his arms. A short, typed message addressed to Sherlock appeared on the monitor. John squinted, reading the screen.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_My name is Madeline Davis, and I'm seventeen years old. My father died two months ago. The only thing is, I don't believe that he's dead. Something just feels off, I can't really explain it over email. I'd love to tell you more. Just email me back if you're interested. I need you to help me find him, Mr. Holmes. Please._

John reread the request, feeling that the report was odd to say the least. It did; however, seem rather interesting. He stared at Sherlock, wondering why he thought the case was so boring. As if the man could read minds, he answered John's mental enquiry.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock droned, "The death was recent. The client is likely bursting with the hormones associated with adolescence. This is a girl who isn't quite processing the reality of her father's death: nothing more." With that, Sherlock slammed the laptop onto the table, earning a cringe from the doctor, and flopped sideways on the couch with his long legs nearly pushing his friend over the edge. John swallowed, reminded of how cynical his partner could be.

"Right," he began patiently, "Well, Sherlock, you did pick the case. That means that, even if you don't believe this man is actually alive, you do have to provide the client with some sort of answer." Sherlock groaned, rolling over melodramatically on the couch and running a single hand through his black curls with frustration. The doctor waited patiently for his friend to pull himself together. If John was anything, he was patient.

"Fine. I'll email the idiot girl back," Sherlock grumbled, lifting the laptop and typing furiously, "I must say, John, this is not what I had in mind when I said we needed a case." John listened to the clicking of the keyboard and Sherlock's sighing. At least the case would be over quickly.


	2. Chapter 2

Balling his slender-fingered hand into a loose fist, Sherlock knocked on the timeworn door three times and waited. Dr. Watson stood faithfully beside him on the stoop, nervous that the tactless detective would be too harsh on his client. The two waited outside for about a minute, but there was no answer.

"Are you sure this is the address?" John asked skeptically, eying the archaic building. He regretted the question when Sherlock scoffed. Yes, of course this was the place. Surely the girl wouldn't get something like this wrong. Sherlock was growing impatient, John could see, and the taller man knocked again with more force. Suddenly, the door creaked, and was cautiously slid from its wedge. It stopped at slightly ajar, and the girl's head peeked around to examine the two men on her porch step. After a moment or two, she pulled the door completely open.

She was around average height and slightly too thin. She seemed to be mixed raced; her skin was dark but freckled, and her eyes were a piercing blue that matched Sherlock's. Her hair was dark and curly, and it seemed particularly unkempt that morning. She hadn't left the house that day, Sherlock had deduced, and she didn't seem to be planning to. He found this odd: it was already noon. Nevertheless, the man stood politely with his arms behind his back and smiling weakly at the teenager.

"Mornin' Mr. Holmes," she said softly in a lower-class British voice, and she then turned to acknowledge the other man, "Dr. Watson." She nodded at the pair of them, receiving their polite nods in return. Stepping out of the way, she allowed the two older men to come into her house. Before the option was offered, Sherlock took the liberty of sitting at the kitchen table. John remained standing; he was less comfortable with imposing in someone's home than his partner was. Soon enough; however, the young girl suggested that he take a seat, settling herself at the head of the oval table.

"Are you here alone, Madeline?" Sherlock queried, not shifting his gaze in the slightest from her. The young girl nodded, peering around as if to be sure.

"I made sure my mum and brother would be out," she spoke in a quiet tone, "They both think I've lost it just 'cause I'm suspicious about the situation." As she replied, Sherlock was already up from his seat, plucking photographs off of the walls.

"Hmm," the dark-haired man replied simply. John, meanwhile, knew regretfully that Sherlock thought the same about the young girl. The room was silent for a few uncomfortable moments as Sherlock scrutinized the pictures in his hands. John, who disliked awkwardness to a great degree, addressed Madeline.

"We, by the way, are truly sorry about your dad," he comforted, speaking for both himself and the man who seemed incapable of uttering anything remotely kind. John knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock announced that her father was, indeed, dead, and that she was simply in denial. The doctor was kindheartedly attempting to ease the girl into it.

"Please don't talk like that, Dr. Watson," the kid said, shutting her eyes for a brief moment in frustration, "You two, of all people, have got to believe me on this one." John, not knowing how to proceed, turned to Sherlock. The detective was still examining the pictures; what could possibly be so important about those photographs?

"Madeline," Sherlock began after a few more silent seconds, "What was your father's job?" John scrunched his nose, puzzled. He knew; however, that the importance of the inquiry would soon reveal itself. That is, in truth, what usually happened when Sherlock asked silly questions.

"He had an office job, nothing special," she replied, waving her hand as if the answer was unimportant, "It was one of those 'nine to five' sort of deals." She gave Sherlock the puzzled expression that he mostly received from John. The man ignored the stare, slamming the family photos down on the table unceremoniously.

"Wrong," he said flatly, to John's astonishment. The girl was absolutely dumbfounded by this response, staring with a slack jaw and wide sapphire eyes. After more stunned silence, Sherlock smiled wryly at the teen. "Don't you want to know why?"

She turned to John with a worried gaze and a finger pointing at Sherlock. "He's not a nutter, is he? 'Cause some of the people in the news say he is." She waited for John's reply as if Sherlock wasn't even in the room. Although, with the detective's selective attention, he may as well not have been. John sighed at her question, not sure that he knew the answer himself.

"Let's see where he goes with this," the doctor replied, defeated. Sherlock had his stare fixed on John now, waiting for his partner to permit him to show off. The wave of the doctor's hand cued the detective's elaborate outburst.

"Here, I have three family portraits. One is from Christmas, presumably last one due to little change in Madeline's height and hair length from then to now. The next is a special event, and even though it isn't made clear, it is obviously a birthday party for the father as the guests in the background seem to have their attention on him and their are traces of frosting on the corners of his lips. The third is from Easter: just three months ago. All of these pictures were taken within a span of roughly four months. In each picture, Mr. Davis is dressed in some sort of button down shirt and dress pants. Even in the Christmas photo, while the rest of his family is dressed in those ridiculous little holiday sweaters, his attire seems incongruously mundane. That; however, is not what catches my eye. In all three photographs, Mr. Davis has a mobile phone in the pocket of his dress shirt. The phone is easily accessible, meaning that it is important and he uses it often. The mobile, though, seems to be an older model, like a flip phone. This is a drastic contrast to the fancy smartphones that belong to his wife and two children. You'd think a man who valued his phone so much would invest in a more expensive model. Still, if you look closer, you can see the outlines of the phone in his shirt pocket are slightly different in each photograph. Mr. Davis had three different mobile phones. Why would a man have three different mobile phones within a time span as small as four months? And why would a man who has a regular office job be expecting phone calls at random times?"

Madeline tried to sputter an answer, not understanding that Sherlock's questions were usually rhetorical. John was simply shocked that the man found something interesting about the case: and only from a few family photographs, for that matter! Sherlock continued on with his verbal analysis, ignoring the confused girl's attempts at a reply.

"Another thing I noticed, at least in the less professionally taken photos, is the presence of a small briefcase in the background. Even from the distance in the pictures I can tell that the briefcase has a combination lock on it. Why does Mr. Davis carry the case around? What could he possibly be keeping in there? Madeline..." He took a break from his rant and regarded the girl with an apologetic look so unique to Sherlock.

"You're father isn't an office worker. He's an assassin."


End file.
